An Adventure in Hyper-Local Food with Exotic Charm
by whipplefilter
Summary: Lightning finally breaks bread with his mishpocheh. Takes place Thanksgiving 2009. Harv POV.


He cuts Chip off, as usual.

"Yo, I'm out–got a thing. Couple hours, though, and I'll meet all of you at Sandy's, okay?" Harv jabs at the elevator switch impatiently. "I'm about to go get in an elevator, man; Bluetooth's probably gonna cut out. _No_ , it's not a woman! Jesus H Christ, You think I'd go on a date and then make plans with you schmucks? Harv don't play ball just to get to first base!"

He watches the floor indicators light up as the elevator makes its ascent to Harv's penthouse garage. Real freaking slowly. It started from B2, which freaking figures. "Yeah, happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Chip. It's not my mother. You think I'd take my mother to a nice dinner and then skulk off to Sandy's? What kind of hellhole did you crawl out of? I don't disrespect my mother like that. I'm having dinner with Lightning McQu– Oh, go screw yourself, Chip. Choke on a lugnut."

Harv rolls into his elevator. Chip's still talking.

Harv sighs. "No, I don't think Lightning McQueen wants to join us at Sandy's, Chip. Chip–"

Harv sighs again. "Chip, he's dating a lawyer. So imma say it again: _I don't think Lightning McQueen wants to join us at Sandy's._ Keep your wax on, man. Y'know, you oughta be glad he's not coming. Girls like a pretty car, my man. If you and McQueen roll into a room? That car sure ain't you. F'real now, I'm out–catch you on the flipside."

Harv snorts. McQueen dating a lawyer.

It's been what, four, five years now? And that never gets old.

Kid's growing up, though. He's the one who set the date, made the reservations, told Harv when to show up. Sure, Harv's running about an hour late, because love Lightning though he does, the kid's not yet in the tax bracket that deserves his punctuality. Harv's never had a client show quite so much initiative, though. It's kinda refreshing.

This will be the first time he and Lightning McQueen have ever met face to face.

–

Harv finds Lightning parked alone at the edge of the bar, sipping– god knows what. Harv eyes the taps judgmentally. Microbrews. It's a gastropub, all black iron fixtures and bistro lights. Harv hates it. It's the kind of place the wannabe chic crowd puts up, farm-to-table menus and everything served with some kind of reduction. Boutique wines and over-inventive cocktails.

Lightning's extremely sober for someone who's been parked at a bar for–Harv checks the time–over an hour and a half. Heaven help him if this kid just spent all evening drinking water.

"Hey hey, how'd the world's fastest racing machine end up in this dump?" Harv greets him convivially.

Lightning doesn't skip a beat, replies, "Had to lure the world's greatest agent out of the woodwork somehow!" His eyes go wide, though, like he can't quite believe Harv is real.

Within minutes, it's pretty clear the only reason they're at this godforsaken hipster pub is because Lightning genuinely thinks this is Harv's scene. It's certainly not Lightning's. As for Harv, he generally aims higher–or, if he's slumming it with the guys, significantly lower. Sandy's is a certain kind of seedy, after all. But this place, with its $20 appetizers and table service, is part of that dismal middle ground.

Harv flops his menu onto the table. He's just gonna ask for the chef's speciality. He can't imagine the chef here has one–if there are even chefs–but they seem gastropub-y enough to make one up.

Lightning's still scrutinizing his menu. His gaze flicks up to Harv, who's waiting expectantly. "I don't eat solid food very often," Lightning admits. "You know. Racecar."

Harv says something disarming. He's never had an awkward dinner in his life, and he doesn't particularly feel the threat of one now–bistro lights be damned. He settles into his usual easy pratter, half business, half whatever he feels like. It's a Thursday night; Harv's feeling pretty chill. And the more he talks, the more of his chill Lightning inherits. They've always worked well together. Harv's been giving Lightning the morning report for years–and generally around now, 9PM, because Harv hasn't been awake at 9AM in over a decade–and it's no different in person than over the phone.

That's a lie.

The waitress serves them both $20 salads. Sixteen different kinds of local lettuce, it boasted, and one of them radicchio. Harv doesn't trust radicchio. Lightning doesn't look like he's ever eaten sixteen leaves in one sitting.

"How's your girl?" Harv asks.

"My what? Oh, you mean–"

"The lawyer chick."

"Her name's Sally. And, uh, she's good."

"She doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving?" Harv nods around the pub. It's all singles tonight, well-dressed yuppies lured far from home by the city–or raised here, but too proud to return to the staid kitsch of home.

"We do. Actually, the whole town does. We–"

"But not tonight. Not this time," Harv establishes, well ahead of Lightning's explanations. This time, Lightning will not be sharing in whatever corn pone hi-jinks define the holiday in that little town of his. This time, Lightning flew all the way to the city to dine with Harv. Harv snorts. This kid.

"It was the only date your assistant said you were available." Lightning shrugs. "You're not putting me out, if that's what you're asking. I'll see them all tomorrow; it's no big deal."

It's not what Harv was asking, because that's not the sort of thing asks. But it's part of the difference between Lightning on the phone and Lightning across the table. Usually, Harv just hangs up for this part.

Generally, when Harv talks to Lightning, he runs the kid's lines along with his own. There's some alter-Lightning out there Harv taps into–that Lightning he knows from the media, that Lightning that he himself has helped create–and it's that Lightning he's on the phone with most of the time. Sure, he's had to make adjustments over the years, make the Lightning he's spinning to all the sponsors, all the news rags, track with the Lightning out there on the track, and the Lightning in the recording studio, but it's never actually been the kid who's in front of him now. Who's maybe not a kid anymore. He's got that girlfriend waiting for him back home, after all.

"How you holding up?" Harv asks suddenly.

That Doc Hudson, he'd passed sometime this year. Gotta be a few months ago now–maybe more than a few. If it sounds like Harv only just remembered this, it's because he has. He'd never met the man, after all.

Lightning seems surprised at the inquiry. He also seems extremely tired, Harv notices now, fatigue dragging at the corners of his mouth. Exhaustion isn't how Lightning makes his money; but it is what tends to happen when you fly clear across the country to eat a $20 salad. For the scantest moment, Harv imagines inviting him to Sandy's.

Harv doesn't wait for an answer–just keeps talking. Lightning clearly doesn't want to give one, and Harv's not really sure how he'd have to respond if he did.

They keep shooting the breeze, Lightning occasionally getting words in edgewise. Sometimes when Lightning talks, Harv finds himself imagining the hammering massage of tires against his trunk, his quarter-panels–rubber sauna-warm, Sandy's girls making lilting chatter he's not really listening to either.

Sometimes he listens, though. It's not even so much what Lightning says as the way he says it. When they'd first met, Lightning hadn't known a whole lot of conversation starters–and now, frankly, he still doesn't. Just thinks he does. Whatever floats his boat. But back then, he'd only been eager to please–or rather, eager to hear how much he'd pleased. He'd always known he was getting the job done, which is what Harv liked so much about him.

Lightning's confident now, too–confident that whatever he's saying matters. Something about old garages, museums, some project he's got for the off-season, who knows. But whether he's right or not, it's his own belief. It's not just something someone told him he believed. Harv can admire that.

"Are you enjoying your…" Lightning's not sure what it is. Neither is Harv–but he's got a plate of thin-cut something in front of him, a dainty curlicue of wasabi and floral-looking ginger. Some kind of sashimi fusion deal. Lightning's still waiting for the waitress to notice he's given up on his pile of leaves.

"There something special you wanted to talk about?" Harv asks, slurping fish. He can't imagine what; but hey, he can't imagine flying clear across the country just to talk to Lightning McQueen, so it's not like he's really trying to understand it all. Harv knows he's not being fired. His return on investment is just too good for Lightning to walk away from, and Harv knows everyone in the business–Lightning hasn't been shopping around. Contract's still got a year on it, but maybe Lightning's thinking ahead to the re-negotiations. Maybe thinking ahead is something he does now.

"Not really," says Lightning, and Harv's estimation of Lightning's business savvy handicaps obligingly. "I just– We've been working together this whole time, you know? I feel like I'd regret it if I never had the chance to meet you face to face."

Harv laughs. "Plenty more chances, champ. You know Harv's always happy to rock it with you!"

Lightning laughs, too. It's the laugh of someone who finally understands the difference between a turn of phrase and an actual desire, and wants to let you know he's in on the joke. It's not bitter–turns out he's still a little eager to please. In this moment, Lightning looks extremely fulfilled.

Heck, if Harv had known breaking a little bread with the kid was gonna make him that happy, Harv'd have done him a solid a long time ago. Harv's the king of schmoozing–ain't no paint off his back. And he'd have chosen a better restaurant. Maybe he _should_ take him to Sandy's.

But no. Harv's a quick read of guys when he's paying attention, and he knows Lightning's grown away from all that. They're very different, these days–him and Lightning.

Hadn't been that way in the beginning. Harv had been Harv and Lightning, he'd have followed. If Harv had tugged that leash at all, he'd have followed. And maybe Harv had tugged, just a little. That's sort of his style. He's hadn't been used to dealing with kids–still isn't. He's used to guys like him–guys like Chip, who respond to the invitations of others by raising them your own. This is probably why his sister screamed when he offered to babysit her puppies that one time.

Harv's glad Lightning found something different. He's proud of him, even; whatever Lightning's got going, it's been good to him.

Harv wonders if Lightning pities him. If Lightning makes a habit of making Thanksgiving plans with the solo flyers of the world, who've got their trunks full of hard cash and roomfuls of lonely ladies waiting to share it with them. And he snorts, because he knows that's a big hell no. Lightning's no saint to the solitary bachelor, dispensing favors. And Lightning knows Harv well enough to know that Harv's happy–this is his style, and he's blitzed to be living it.

This is personal. He'd just wanted to meet Harv. Just for a night.

"Sorry I never got a chance to meet your old man," says Harv, because he knows that's gotta be part of all this. It just is.

He says, "He sounded like one of the real ones."

"Yeah, he was," Lightning agrees, and he gets that look again–extreme fulfillment. Jesus, it's like Harv's never shown him basic decency before.

But then, maybe he hadn't. It's easy to forget about that part. Harv never makes calls unless he's multi-tasking something else, and he's always on the clock.

"You want dessert?" Harv asks. Harv's not much of a dessert man–if he's not licking it off the hood of a sports coupe, he's not sure he sees the point–but he's got a feeling Lightning is.

They talk for another hour, over a confection that involves rum cherries, latticed chocolate, and cream. It's difficult to eat.

For the first time, Harv wishes he and Lightning were buddies. But not really. What they've got is perfect; and for the good of both of them, they don't have more than one dinner's-worth of commonalities. Harv can't realistically envision spending any more time with Lightning than he already has.

 _Love the guy, don't get me wrong!_ he assures his inner monologue. _But you know, it's like desserts. You don't need that much._ They got a good thing going as is, and why mess with that?

Harv still feels guilty, though. Like he's gotta throw the kid a bone, make the trip worth his while. Make up for something, maybe. For what, he's not sure.

Lightning calls for the check. Harv realizes it's the first time he's ever been on the receiving end of a dinner.

"Hey," he says. "Me and the boys are goin' out a little later tonight. You're welcome to join, if you want, let us show you a good time, see the sights–y'know, that kinda thing." He winks licentiously.

Lightning thanks him for the offer, but he's got a red-eye to catch. He'll be back out west with the fam by dawn.

"Good for you, kid," Harv says, and means it. No bluster, no bravado.

They both smile.

Then Harv says, "Hey! Look sharp. Imma shoot you the schedule for Florida in a few weeks, all right? Say hi to your girl for me, tell her I got some stuff for her to review with you, get your pretty Hancock on 'em. Ciao, baby, g'night, I'm out!"

–

Weaving his way through the darkened streets to Sandy's, Harv watches the planes take off out of JFK. They rise up, head west, and they're on their way. They carve their way through the sky.


End file.
